


Détresse Psychologique

by jattendrai



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Modern Civilization, Post-Canon, pstd chell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jattendrai/pseuds/jattendrai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ties just can't be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Détresse Psychologique

**Author's Note:**

> well this is nonsense but i love ptsd chell in a modern setting

“I've got a cupboard with cans of food, filtered water, And pictures of you,” the voice crackled through the radio. Chell felt the song seemed to relate too much to her.

 

It was hard to re-adjust to modern civilization, to the developments in technology and the general world, the things that lived within it and kept it moving. Everything had a hub at the center that kept it moving, but when she was trapped in Aperture, the hub was a person -- a creation, so to say -- that chose when everything would happen. She was her hub, but now she wasn’t -- she was now her own hub, and it was troubling to show herself the way around alone. She did manage to get on her feet after a bit -- got a tidy second-story apartment in a little gated lower-class community, a stable job -- and due to some inconclusive brain damage tests, had a regular moderator nurse come to her regularly. She was also sent into therapy on her free will, talking about her experiences at Aperture that she knew nobody believed; but still, it was nice to at least talk again. She may not be what society would want of her, but she was free and happy.

Yet it seemed the tie between her and Aperture would never break. Every night came the dreams -- testing, but every chamber being exactly the same, the exit leading to the same place every time; the sound of the birds and dripping sewage down in old Aperture, the man’s voice replaying over and over in a cackling intercom; the cold and distant feeling of space as her hands gripped to the Core has hard she could, feeling numb and empty and scared.

She always awoke in tears.

She refused to eat potatoes of any kind. They would ask her if she didn’t like them or if she was allergic, and she’d just nod in response and say nothing more; none of them were right though, she wasn’t allergic to anything, and potatoes were actually rather tasty to her -- but she always ended up crying when eating them. It only reminded her of the portrait, the things GLaDOS said -- _Caroline_.

Chell had a boss named Caroline. She was a small, pudgy thing with rosy cheeks and curly pepper hair, and always wore a pretty barrette on the left side of her face. Her voice was comforting and she knew how Chell struggled, not pressuring her too much in her work -- she was a good boss. Oh, she also loved cake. She brought some in at the end of each month, petite cakes with frosting and fruit on top -- called it a special treat for them. It was always chocolate though, it was the mass-liked flavor among Chell’s workers, so she opted out of it and ate some of the eclairs from the cafe instead. _It’s fine_ , she’d tell them. She didn’t really care for cake anyway.

 

Time passed, and the ties only seemed to get stronger, more unbreakable. She refused to get one of the new phones that everybody seems to have -- Siri freaked her out. Not because she was afraid of AIs no, she would never fear them, but she swore when she went into one of the stores to get one, the message ‘ _GLaDOS sends her regards_ ’ had popped up while she was playing with Siri. Whether it was just a mass hallucination or not, she didn’t wanna try anything -- she must break these ties.

She didn’t forget about her Companion Cube though, she couldn’t. It’s bulky body sat next to her mattress, acting as both a table and a conversation partner. Sometimes in fits of a panic attack she pushed it around her room, as if somewhere on the floor is a hidden button that she must put it on, which would release her from her nightmare. There never was though.

Then there was the bird problem. It seemed in the August times, where the plants she placed out on her balcony began to decay, and it summoned all the ravens and crows from town to the railing. It was a bit comforting, really; she bought small amounts of bread crumbs and sunflower seeds and tossed it to them from her sliding glass door, letting in the chill of the air surround her. They were nice company, but she never went near them -- the feeling of shooing them away came to her, even making her arm twitch a bit, and she didn’t want them to leave her -- but the feeling was there, so she distanced herself from even the birds.

 

She liked standing out on the deck at night, to look up and see the stars scattered all over the sky. The moon rose to the side of her building, and she’s dangle near the railing to look at it’s beauty; a soft white with grey textures. Ever so slightly she wished to touch it, to feel the soft grain of it -- just once.

Trips to the hospital were frequent; Scoliosis, Arthritis, weak ankle joints; they were all written neatly on a little yellow slip given to her by the shaky nurse, along with a list of how to control the problems. Physically therapy was wired into her daily routine; her instructor was a nice lady, with clipped orange hair and dark brown eyes, and freckles -- lots of them, all over her cheeks and hands and arms. She talked softly to Chell, and complimented her on her flexibility and agility -- no deadpan remarks on her size or bone structure.

It was nice.

 

Occasionally -- and by occasionally, she means only once every couple years -- she’ll shove the awful clothes she had became familiar with into a backpack, and make the starting trek out of town; she went through thick woods, empty neighborhoods, and soon came upon an open area of grass, and after about an hour or two of nothing but greenery, she’d finally make it back -- back to those golden fields of wheat she remembered all too fondly. And she’d stand there, among the wheat, at the pathetic and burnt shack. Her entire body shook, her veins pumping fast and rushing all the blood to her head, tears beginning to blur her sight -- and she’d reach out to the shack, to the small pull-door that sat awkwardly to the side, and she’d grasp the door handle for a second or two before letting go, palms violently shaking.

She didn’t know why she did this.

It hurt her so much.


End file.
